


until there is nothing left of him

by loherangrin



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destructive Behavior, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25196827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loherangrin/pseuds/loherangrin
Summary: A survival game passing by entertainment. Monsters that don’t lurk in corners, thriving instead on spotlights broadcasted through all the nation, bright smiles and the fanfare that follows right behind.A boy and the elusive ghost of his sister.A revolution, told in many parts.
Kudos: 2





	until there is nothing left of him

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where I'm going with this, but shoutout to @youknowthelines for encouraging me to write it anyway
> 
> depending on how things go, I might change the tagging and rating (tho if you feel I've already missed something, feel free to hit me up!)
> 
> title comes from [Please, let him be happy](https://pencap.tumblr.com/post/152685439505/please-let-him-be-soft-i-know-you-made-him), by [Sylvie J.P.](http://pencap.tumblr.com/)

There was a time, long ago, when violence wasn’t his immediate response to even mild distress. When not everything he saw was a potential weapon, every new person he met, a potential threat. Where did that soft-spoken, sweet boy go? He sees ghosts at every turn, demons on every corner — rages at every little thing, and seethes in silence until it boils over, until he snaps, a spring coiled tight.

These days, there are parts of him that feel like puzzle pieces that will never fit anymore. Memories of better times, happier times, the sound of his sister’s laugh, the sight of her rare smiles — he can’t remember most of things about her anymore, and he doesn’t know _why_ , left with only scraps of things he’s supposed to know, things he’s supposed to _love_ , a memory of a girl he tries to keep alive by willpower alone.

Needless to say, it doesn’t always work. He wonders if she would’ve been proud of him anyway, and comes up short — the doubt grows even if it’s nice to think otherwise.

These days, all Jason Grace sees when he closes his eyes is blood.

* * *

Beryl Grace is not a good mother. Never was, even if he tries to pretend, sometimes. She screams often. She drinks even more than she screams. Wine, white wine, beer, whiskey — Jason grows up walking his way through whatever bottle she can put her hands on first. She hits him, once, and the heavy rings on her fingers leave bruises that last for days.

He tries to eat a stapler when he’s two, and she’s not even the one to stitch it. There’s no love lost there. But in the middle, somewhere in the middle, Jason can lie to himself to say that he saw someone else, someone she could’ve been — someone she almost was, for a while. Smiles of pearly white teeth, dresses without wrinkles, not even a hair out of place. She pours tea and offers biscuits, and talks about his sister as if Jason, nine years old, hasn’t spent his entire life seeing the two of them at each other’s throat. Anyone that looks without paying too much attention can even pretend that her hands are trembling because she wants her daughter to come home a victor, instead of the fact that it’s been almost two entire weeks since she’s last drank a sip of alcohol.

Jason knows better. Should have, anyway, shouldn’t have left himself believe she could change, that she could care, that he could _count_ on her. When Thalia dies, Beryl starts drinking again — and she never truly stops, after that. A rocky road to a fast and bitter end.

When the slip of paper with Jason’s name comes out of the glass bowl up the stage, many years down the road, mom is not alive to wish him luck anymore.

* * *

Being a tribute is the highest honour anyone could ever have. Becoming a victor, even more so. Thalia tunes out the TV on mandatory watching, tells him not to pay attention, but Jason knows it — hears it from boys and girls his age, kids that dream of going big, and a part of him that’s still too young to understand fantasizes of it: of coming back home to a proud District and a proud family, if only so Thalia can stop scrubbing off the tears that gather in her eyes when she thinks he can’t see.

The fantasy, like many things — childhood innocence, for one —, doesn’t last long. The fear on Thalia’s eyes the first time she gets reaped, not even a whole month after Jason’s 7th birthday, tells him a story that’s different from the ones he hears in school, on the screen. Her head held high, hands closed to fists by her side —Jason doubts anyone but him knows it’s to stop them from shaking —, she looks twelve and scared; nothing like the pride he thinks he was supposed to see.

For the first time in his entire life, Jason fears for his sister. But Zöe Nightshade, sixteen, listens to prayers he hasn’t yet learned to voice, volunteers, and his sister never gets to set foot in the arena.

Zöe Nightshade, like many other kids before her, comes back home in a coffin.

* * *

Jason’s too numb to ignore the bitter irony of becoming a tribute exactly six years after Thalia’s death. He’s just turned fifteen — older than she was. She’d be twenty-one by December 15th, now — would be, but she never came home, did she? He tries not to dwell on it too much.

His fellow tribute is a girl named Gwendolyn — “Gwen”, she insists — that he thinks might have been his classmate last year; the ginger hair is not exactly a given, but the excited, childish freckled grin, reeks of friendliness Jason’s never been able to wrap his mind around — a friend he could’ve had, perhaps, in another life.

This year’s mentors are the winners of the 50th and 58th Games, respectively: Michael Varus and Lupa. The second one regards him with cold, calculating contempt, before redirecting all of her attention to her own mentee. It’s a good thing, Jason guesses — he can’t remember whether Gwen’s particularly skilful, but if no one else spoke up during reaping, that probably means she’s good enough. Varus, in the face of his clear lack of enthusiasm, frowns, and deems him a lost cause. It’s in the way he rolls his eyes, how he doesn’t bother asking things, the curl of disgust at the corner of mouth.

Jason could’ve cared more, maybe, bothered to pretend — he picks at his food, instead, and wonders if the fruits at the middle of the table taste as fresh as they look.

* * *

Thalia stops trying to shield him from the truth after Zöe. It’s not like she could’ve hidden it for any longer, anyway. Jason thinks he understands her a bit more than he did last year, a little bit better — the sombreness, the reason why she hides behind a harsh exterior, a quick temper, cold even to him from time to time. He thinks that maybe he gets it.

It’s not the truth, probably, Jason never got to ask, but it’s what he thinks.

* * *

Jason wears a wristlet on his tribute parade, the one thing he sets his foot down even though it doesn’t match with the brown leathery costume District 2’s stylists came up with this year. Is it a personal statement, or just nostalgia? He doesn’t know. Thalia used Zöe’s silver circlet, once upon a time. It’s not the same design, but it’s close enough for him — and it gets the point across, he hopes.

Gwen, by his side, looks pretty. She was already pretty, but the eyeliner and tiny bit of red on her cheeks highlight the sharp angles of her face, her thick eyelashes and dark eyes. When she smiles, gone is the girl who shook his hand back in District 2, hyper and soft — she looks dangerous. A deadly competitor, ready for the fight.

Jason, for the first time, wonders if maybe she has someone waiting for her back home. He thinks she might. He hopes she doesn’t.

* * *

Thalia becomes a tribute again on the same month of Jason’s 9th birthday, and, this time, no one volunteers. What were the odds of it happening? At the beginning, she’s rumoured by many to be the luckiest girl in the District — at the beginning, after the bloodbath, when she’s alone but alive, and no one gets why she’d rather go off on her own instead of teaming with the other careers, but that’s just the way Thalia is.

Jason doesn’t look away from the TV once. Not when she’s running and hiding, when she’s foraging for food — and not when she’s killing. The boy from 6. The girl from 9. Both tributes of 5. She cleans the blood off her face, and she doesn’t seem exactly like the same girl who’d help him whenever he got hurt, but she’s Jason’s sister and he wants her _home_.

That, like many other things he wanted, hoped for, doesn’t happen. A hulking boy from District 1 stabs his sister through the stomach with the broken end of her own spear, and Jason can’t tear his eyes away even while Thalia’s left behind to bleed to death. Mom leaves the room, and he knows what she’s searching for before he hears the bottle being opened on the other room.

One minute. Jason watches, heart on his throat, feebly praying, hope, bile rising to his mouth, _not Thalia, not Thalia, not my sister_.

Two minutes. Thalia curls on herself and gasps, shakes, chokes on the blood that trickles down her chin — and then she raises her hand to the upper corner of her mouth, the left one, and he doesn’t need to do the same, but he does, anyway, to find the stapler scar he already knew was there.

Four minutes. She never promised to come back home. And this, red stained fingers never leaving her face, is the only goodbye Jason will ever get.

Hylla Ramírez-Arellano, two days later, is announced the victor of the 64th Hunger Games.

* * *

The arena is unlike any Jason’s seen before in all his years of mandatory watching — concrete ruins and greenery that seeped through the cracks, weeds growing up the walls of buildings long abandoned. The tribute by his left is the boy from 4, the one by his right is the girl from 6, and he remembers none of their names. It sounds like a silly thing to get hung over when the chances are that he’s about to die, but‒

 _He can’t remember their names_. The countdown starts, and Jason turns his back on the cornucopia, body coiled with tension. His practical skills of survival are basically non-existent, he’d guess, but he’s a fast learner, and quick on his feet — quicker than he knows he looks like.

When the countdown reaches its end, he sets to running without looking over his shoulder once, ducking left and right, as deep into the ruins as his legs will carry him. No weapons, no water, no provisions — it’s a stupid plan and he knows it, but he’s a dead man walking anyway, so what’s one more dumb decision? Jason’s making a statement, even if he hasn’t yet realized what is it that he’s trying to say.

The cannon booms seven repeated times. They’re not friends, and now they’ll never be, but Jason finds himself hoping that Gwen has made it out of the bloodbath — or maybe he hopes that she hasn’t, because then this won’t become weighing down how much coming back to their District is worth it, wondering if she, unlike him, has someone praying for her safe return. Night time finds him hidden into a thick bush of plants with exactly four leaves each, cold and already hungry, but calmer than he thought he’d be. Alone and alive, like he _hoped_ he’d be.

Somehow, that doesn’t feel like a victory.

* * *

He’s a good victor. Popular. Pretty enough, charming enough, won his games just viciously enough that, though he’s far from alright, no one will outright say he’s _not_.

Jason knows better. From how his smiles feel less like amusement and more like pulling teeth, grins that stretch like plastic on his face in a warning to everything that comes close enough to touch. From the urge to square his shoulders, intimidate, never to hunch over and wait until the opportunity to pounce arrives.

And the anger. _Oh_ , the anger. Sometimes, Jason feels like he’s living in this fucked up version of society where he’s not a person anymore, just a — a _thing_ that hunts.

He’s fifteen. Living feels like hunting, now, and to his mounting horror, everyone else is prey.

* * *

The feeling, when it finally comes, is entirely unexpected. A biproduct of dehydration and hunger, perhaps, but no less strong for it — in fact, the longer Jason gets by while trying to remember which plants are edible and which ones are not, the harder it is to ignore.

He doesn’t _want_ to die. He might not have cared, might _still_ not care, true, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. And to go down without a fight? Without even lashing back? Jason never fights back and he’s _tired_ of it. Tired of quieting down, of speaking softly because raising his voice means calling attention, means getting noticed, of hiding because he doesn’t want to get _hurt_. He’s already hurt, he’s already alone! What’s the worst that could happen? What more could life possibly take away from him? There is nothing left. _Nothing_.

…

Right?

* * *

The many nightmares that follow his nightly hours are much of the same. Gwen and all the other kids, the things he did to survive, the things he _didn’t_ do. In the most recurring ones he’s in the arena, always in the arena, down on his knees and bleeding to death already, hands of an unknown assailant wrapped tight around his throat — and even while he waits for the inevitable end, the only thing going through his head is a meaningless mantra of _not Thalia, not Thalia, not my sister_.

But sometimes — sometimes the nightmares get creative. Sometimes, when Jason dreams, his sister’s eyes are the same shade as the ones of the President on the day he gave Jason a crown.

* * *

His stylist, Atalanta, used to accidentally spook him whenever they were in the same room. Jason thinks of her as he walks through shattered glass, loud and easily noticed — her and her light feet wouldn’t be caught dead in here. Or would they? Maybe Jason’s mixing things up.

Maybe it was Gwen who had the light feet. Gwen of the fire-hair, of freckles, of the bright beaming smile — Gwen, whose fingerprints painted pretty purple bruises on his throat when she tried to kill him. It still hurts when he breathes. When he swallows. When he pokes at the tender skin, unable to sleep, thinking of the people they could’ve been, for the family she had waiting for her back home. It’s unfair, isn’t it? Jason had no one to say goodbye to, no one who would mourn him, but it’s still Gwen the one who’s dead.

He grits his teeth, and that, too, hurts.

Maybe it was neither. It doesn’t matter anymore.

* * *

Time doesn’t mean a lot to a boy who’s got nothing to look up for in the future and nothing to look back to in the past. Years upon years upon years of memories Jason can’t recollect no matter how hard he tries — and he _does_ try, regardless of the knowledge that he’s going to fail.

Black hair chopped short. Freckles? She had electric blue eyes, like lightning. Or were they grey and stormy, just like the sky before rain falls? It doesn’t matter.

Here is what he remembers: they weave flower crowns together on Thalia’s 15th birthday. Purple hyacinths and asphodels mashed together clumsily because Jason doesn’t know how to weave and Thalia accidentally crushes the delicate petals in between her fingers when she tries to help — they still wear them both, proud and just a little sheepish, laughing together hand in hand at their neighbour’s badly disguised disdain.

Here is what he remembers: they weave flower crowns together on Thalia’s 15th birthday. Or maybe they don’t. Jason ruins everything he touches, and Thalia never reached fifteen, anyway.

* * *

Of his doing, the cannon booms four times.

The first one is for Otis, whom he stumbles upon the third night, who’s bigger and stronger, but not fast enough — Jason steals his dagger and his food, but leaves the rest without hesitation, trying to wipe from his mind the sight of the other’s open neck even if he knows that, if he wants to survive this, killing is not a choice anymore.

The second one is for Dylan, at the beginning of the sixth day, who takes him by surprise and holds his head down a stream of water until he’s on the brink of consciousness — Jason gets a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder for his struggles, but the boy of District 5 turns his back on him before making sure he’s not breathing anymore, and that ends up being his downfall.

The third cannon is for Gwen. Mercy kills are still kills, he guesses — she’s past the point of coherence when they find each other, but even after she tried strangling him, Jason still cradles her, mindless of the blood that soaks through the fabric of his clothes, whispering soft nonsense.

The fourth one is for the boy who stabs him through the chest with a sword. Jason isn’t sure how he pulled that one out. He gets announced victor of the 70th Hunger Games watching himself bleed out on the ground.

* * *

“She was a disappointment, you know,” and then, as if Jason understand what he means, Varus feels the need to clarify: “your sister.”

There are many ways the scene plays out inside Jason’s head. The butter knife close by, not nearly as sharp as needed, but it would do. There’s a lot of glass, which would be messier, but still get the point across. If he had enough time to untie his shoelaces, perhaps‒

“You, though…” the chuckle that follows grates on Jason’s nerves, picks at the fragile façade he’s still trying to maintain. He can _feel_ it crumbling, his mouth twitching at the urge to bare his teeth. Think of something else, think of something else… “I gotta admit, for a moment there, I thought you would be just as disappointing.”

Jason’s mind drifts again. He wouldn’t need the butter knife. Or the glass. Not even the shoelaces, to be honest. His hands, bare hands — he was told he has long fingers, once. Before. Easier to reach out and wrap around‒

No. Not yet. He takes a sip of the bitter coffee from his mug, instead. Double shot, no sugar — the same way he remembers Thalia drinking it.

Another sip, scalding hot. Swallow. Repeat.

“Yeah? Tell me more about it.”


End file.
